Dulce Et Decorum Est
by MartaL0712
Summary: Beregond reflects on his role in preventing Faramir's death, and justifies to a fellow guard why he considers Denethor one of the "victorious dead." Features Beregond, Denethor, Pippin, Gandalf, and various OC Gondorians.
1. Default Chapter

Dulce et Decorum Est Ch 1

by Marta Layton

Last Edited: 25 May 2004

Beregond reflects on his role in preventing Faramir's death, and justifies to a fellow guard why he considers Denethor one of the "victorious dead."

Beregond leaned back against the wall of the Drunken Dragon, resting his head against the rough-hewn walls, and sighed. He watched the sun sink behind the distant buildings, dyeing the horizon a sanguine red. _Löende_ had arrived.

"To Daeron!" someone called from across the room.

And so it began: the naming of those who had given Gondor their lives this past year. It was one of Beregond's favourite customs. Every year soldiers gathered in inns much like this one across Gondor, raised a mug, and drained it to the memories of the men with whom they had fought. This year they all had many to commemorate, and Beregond did not doubt the inn would remain full well into the night.

"To Belegorn!" someone else called. Mugs clinked. To Veandur. To Amrothos. The names came more quickly now, one after another, until the soldiers wove a strange macabre tapestry with a pattern all its own. Forlong. Halbarad. Dúnhere. Gelmir. Mablung. Hirluin.

"To Ecthelion's son!" Beregond found himself lifting his mug, surprised to hear the words pass his lips. Of all the names he could have called, Denethor's was not the one Beregond thought he would have honoured so naturally.

The men cried with one voice: "To the sons of Ecthelion! To Gondor! Hail the victorious dead!" Mugs clinked, ale splattered, and the men continued to call the role of their departed comrades.

One of the gate-guards took the seat across the table from Beregond. "You did not speak of Ecthelion's sons," he said, "but of Ecthelion's _son_." He stared at his friend as if he was trying to make sense of this behaviour. "You would toast Denethor?"

"Good _loendë_, Galahir," Beregond said, ignoring the question. "I did not know you drank with us this evening."

Galahir shook his head, his disbelief evident on his face. "I find it hard to believe that you--_of all people!_--would honour him. I have but heard the stories of what passed on the Silent Street; you saw it."

"Not all tales are true," Beregond said simply. "You say you have heard the stories, and that I saw it. In that you are correct. But if I see fit to honour him, whilst others would curse his name--"

"We are gathered here to honour the victorious dead," Galahir interrupted. "Denethor is dead, aye, but victorious? He fled the field of battle and surrendered before his enemies could ever break the Great Gate. How is that a victory?"

Beregond rested his cheek in the palm of his hand, looking at Galahir pensively. "No orc had crossed into the First Circle, that is true, but a battle had raged in the Citadel for many years."

Galahir arched his eyebrows at that.

Beregond shrugged. "If you would rather believe the minstrels than hear the truth, so be it." He took a long pull of his ale and let his gaze wander across the room.

"No," Galahir said. "I would hear your story."

Beregond held his mug in the air, and soon the innkeeper had refilled both his and Galahir's. "As you wish," Beregond said after the innkeeper had left. "I had just come on duty when Pippin came running by the gate to the Sixth Circle, as quickly as if one of the Nine had been chasing him."


	2. Chapter Two

Dulce et Decorum Est Ch 2

by Marta Layton

Last Edited: 25 May 2004

Beregond reflects on his role in preventing Faramir's death, and justifies to a fellow guard why he considers Denethor one of the "victorious dead."

Beregond stood near the Citadel's wall, peering into the fog below, trying to make out what was happening in the battle he knew he was fated to watch instead of fight. The dark clouds from the East obscured his sight, but he saw the smoke-billows climbing toward the heavens and the distant red glow of flames far off. _So it is true: the First Circle burns. What of the Second, and the Third? How long will the fires take to spread to the Citadel?_ He no longer doubted that they would and only wondered how long he must wait.

A heavy door clanged shut somewhere in the circle below, and Beregond hurried to the gate leading to the Sixth Circle. He held out his torch and saw the shine of a silver helm and tabard. So it was a tower-guardsman. But as the figure approached Beregond noted its short height, shorter even than Bergil. That could only mean...

"Whither do you run, Master Peregrin?" Beregond called.

Pippin turned, clearly surprised and pleased to see his friend. "Beregond!" he cried, running over. "I must find Mithrandir."

Beregond nodded. "He walks tirelessly through the lower circles, they say, and wherever he comes we forget our fear for a while." _And quickly remember it as soon as he leaves_, Beregond thought, ashamed of his countrymen. _So many little more than boys...What more can I expect of them? But I would meet our enemies as best I could, and show those lads how to banish fear, rather than stand here and wait. _"The lord's messages are urgent and should not be hindered by me," Beregond continued at last, "but tell me quickly, if you may: what passes? When I came on duty only a few minutes ago Bregamir said that the Lord of the City had left the Tower, and that his men bore Faramir before him." Beregond swallowed hard. He had heard the rumours, of course, that Faramir was gravely wounded, but if he was borne to Rath Dínen...

"Yes," Pippin said, his voice almost a whisper, "to the Silent Street."

_So it is true_. Beregond bowed his head to hide the tears he could no longer keep from falling. "They said that he was dying, and now--now he is--he's dead?"

Pippin shook his head sombrely. "No, not dead, not yet--but close to it." The lump in Beregond's chest eased slightly. "Beregond, listen to me. Faramir is not dead, and he may yet live--if I can help him. But to do that I must find Gandalf." Pippin took a step forward and placed his small hand on Beregond's forearm. "And the steward, Beregond...Denethor has fallen before his City. He is fey and dangerous." Pippin looked back toward the Closed Door and shuddered. "Long have I watched as Denethor sat beside Faramir. He is broken, Beregond; the steward's will is shattered, just as Elendil's blade was long ago. And I doubt not that the Dark Lord is just as much to blame for this as he was for Narsil in ages past."

_Denethor? _Beregond wondered. _His will was as strong as the very walls of Minas Tirith. _He began to object but decided against it; Pippin wore a more serious expression than Beregond had ever seen on his small face.

"Not more than two hours ago," Pippin continued, "Denethor left Faramir's side. He used a strange door--I have never seen anyone use it in all the time I have spent in that room--and when he returned some time later the lord had a strange gleam in his eyes. A cold fire. It frightened me. Denethor kneeled beside Faramir, felt his son's face and mumbled something to himself. I couldn't be sure, but I _thought_ he said, 'Burning, already burning.' He had me call his men, and they took up Faramir's bed. I followed them out of the Citadel and through the Sixth Circle, down the Rath Dínen, until at last he reached a large house. Larger even than some here in the Citadel. But when we came inside, all I could see was table after table, a long row. The men set Faramir on one at the end of the row, and..." Pippin's tone grew more urgent. "Denethor lay down with him, and the men covered them both with a single shroud, and--"

"Calm down, Pippin," Beregond said, and Pippin looked up at him. What hope the hobbit had kept seemed to fade away, and his eyes filled with a desperate fear. "Denethor told the men to bring wood and oil, and to build a funeral-pyre. They are doing that even now. I must find Gandalf, before Denethor's guards do something we will all regret."

"Then you must seek the heart of the battle," Beregond said.

Pippin nodded gravely. "I know. The Lord has given me leave. But Beregond, I beg you--do anything you can to delay them. I fear I shall return too late."

Beregond frowned. "The Lord does not permit those who wear the black and silver to leave their posts for any cause, save at his own command."

"Well," Pippin replied, "you must choose between your duty and the life of Faramir. As for your orders, I think they come from a madman, not a lord. But do what you can. As for me, I must run. I will return as soon as I can, if fate spares me."

Pippin ran off again, more quickly than before if that was possible, and Beregond walked back to the wall. He watched Pippin pass through the haze until the hobbit disappeared.

Beregond stood at the wall for some time. How could he leave? He had promised fealty and service over forty years ago, and since taking that oath he had proven himself time and again. Was he willing to throw all that away, disobey his lord's command at the very hour Gondor needed him most, based on the word of someone he had met only a few days ago?

_Aye, but what if the halfling spoke true?_ The rumours said that Faramir lay in the tower half-dead, but if he had actually died, surely that news would have spread more quickly than wildfire. And honest men can sense when others lie, if the ancient sages and Beregond's own experience could be trusted. He had only seen Pippin so frightened one other time, when they had heard the shriek of the Nazgûl. This was no bluff; Beregond was sure of it.

So what then? Should he abandon his post? What hope did Gondor have, if all of her soldiers acted as they chose and none remained to obey their officer's orders?

But this was not just any man; this was Faramir. The words Beregond had spoken to Pippin yesterday came back to him. _He is bold, more bold than many deem; for in these days men are slow to believe that a captain can be wise and learned in the scrolls of lore and song, as he is, and yet a man of hardihood and swift judgement in the field. But such is Faramir. Less reckless and eager than Boromir, but not less resolute_. Faramir was worth more than ten other men, and if Beregond could save him...

And yet, the simple fact remained that he was pledged to stand guard at this gate. If he left now he could pay for his absence with his life--and rightly so, if trouble should come from his shirking his duty. Gondor stood, yes, but only on one leg, and soon she would be reduced to her knees. Could he really abandon his post, now of all times?

Somewhere beyond the wall a door opened. He saw a boy--his son, Bergil, he realised--hurry away on some errand.

Bergil. If Gondor failed, whatever Beregond did would not matter. But if Gondor _survived_--if Gondor stood on her knees at least, and remained unbowed, how would Beregond explain to his son that the glorious Captain Faramir had died because Beregond of the Guard would not do what he could?

No. Beregond would act in such a way that his son would be proud of him, no matter what came after.


	3. Chapter Three

Beregond reflects on his role in preventing Faramir's death, and justifies to a fellow guard why he considers Denethor one of the "victorious dead."

* * *

"You mean to tell me," Galahir interrupted, "that you left your post and deserted the Citadel gate to whatever might come, based on the report of someone you had met only a few days earlier."

Beregond looked at his friend, trying to decide what argument would make him seem like less than a fool. But how could he explain this to someone who had not made the decision himself? "Yes, I suppose I did," he said at last. "But what would you have done?"

"I..." Galahir began, but he shut his mouth, clearly unable to think of a good counter-argument.

"If I had done nothing, I would be no better than those soldiers who built the pyre, too blinded by duty to spare Faramir's life."

Galahir nodded his head. "I suppose I would have done much the same," he said, "but that still does not explain why you consider Denethor one of the victorious dead."

"You have heard the stories," Beregond replied bitterly. "You should know what happened next. Beregond, guard of the Tower, moved from traitor to murderer, all for his beloved Captain of Ithilien."

"So the stories say," Galahir said, "but I would hear your tale."

Beregond smiled at that. "The stories tell no lies, but there is more to the truth than will fit in pretty rhymes."

Having decided that he could do nothing but abandon his post, Beregond hurried through the Citadel gate and around the Sixth Circle, toward the Fen Hollen. The gate to the Silent Street was officially closed to all except the steward and those bearing some token of his, but Beregond had served as a guard of the White Tower for long years, both in the Citadel courtyard outside and as a door-warden in the halls of the tower itself. He had marched with the steward's family when they buried the Lady Finduilas years before, and he had often escorted the steward when he came to visit his wife's grave. He was better known than many by some of the wardens of the keys, and he hoped that, if by chance one of those wardens was on duty, this acquaintance would earn him passage.

At last he reached the gate and saw, much to his relief, that Daeron stood behind the gate. "My old friend," he called as he ran up. "I come from the Citadel on urgent business. Please, let me pass."

Daeron just stood there, looking Beregond over. "Have you a token?" he asked.

"No, I am afraid I haven't," Beregond said, hoping his impatience did not show. "But my business is urgent, and I had no time to return to the tower for one. But you know me! I have long served the steward, and his father before him. Surely you can let me pass without fear that I will desecrate the tombs..."

Daeron looped his thumbs through his belt and ticked his tongue disapprovingly. "Just what is this urgent business?"

_Would Daeron let me pass, if he knew what I hoped to do? I scarcely can convince myself that I act rightly, to hinder my lord--how am I to convince another? _"The steward's orders are secret," Beregond said, "and it is worth more than my posting to share them with those he has not given me leave to tell--"

"And it's worth more than _my _post to let you through this gate without some token, especially with the steward and his personal guard on the Street right now," Daeron argued back.

_We're wasting time_, Beregond thought, _time I may not have to waste_. He tried a different approach. Drawing his dagger from where it was tucked under his tabard, he held it out for Daeron to inspect. "If I don't get past that gate, something terrible will happen, and I haven't time to return to the Tower for a token. Now, I know how you like old blades--good blades, ones crafted by smiths who knew their business. I have such a blade here. If you will let me past, you may have it."

Daeron unlocked the gate and stepped out, but he did not move aside. He nodded at the dagger, and Beregond handed it to him so he could look at it more closely. Daeron balanced the grip in his hand, held the blade up to what light shone through the thick clouds above, and ran his thumb along the smooth side. At last he handed it back. "No, I do not think so. It is a fine blade, that's to be sure, but it is still not worth my job, which I'll surely lose if I let you through without some token."

"Come now, Daeron!" Beregond argued, now more agitated. "I've told you once already that I don't have time to go back for any token. If we live out the day, why, we'll be lucky, and I think the lord will pardon you this one time. But if you _don't_ let me through--"

"I told you once, Master Beregond, and I'll tell you again--you're not getting by this gate--"

If Daeron would not listen to reason, Beregond would just have to force his way past. He stepped forward, and Daeron drew his sword. Suddenly a strange madness fell upon Beregond: whether from his own growing impatience or something outside himself or some combination of the two, he could not say. A barbarous cry rose in his throat, and a brilliant white light burned behind his eyes, blinding him to all else. His hand gripped the dagger more tightly, and he felt it slice through skin, muscle, and bone. The dagger fell from his hand, and Beregond heard it clang on the ground. The light died away, and Beregond saw the pool of blood at his feet. Daeron collapsed, and then he moved no more.

Beregond took Daeron's keys and picked up his dagger, wiping the latter on his tunic. He pushed the gate open, stepped over Daeron's body, and hurried down the street to the House of the Stewards. If he had not come this way several times before he might have missed the house, only one of many sleepy mansions in the shadowy dark, each one similar to all the others. But he recognised the black marble pillars that marked this house, suggestive of the steward's rod that Denethor bore. As he hurried toward the porch he saw one of Denethor's guards approaching with a faggot of wood. "In the name of the king, halt!" he cried, and he sprang up the stairs, bracing himself against the door.

"Beregond!" the guard called, clearly surprised to see him. "Why are you here? Who is guarding the Citadel gate?"

Beregond offered no answer. He unsheathed his sword and held it out menacingly. "Surely," he declared, "you shall not cross this threshold while I still draw breath. Leave, and find a better enemy than your friend and fellow guard, if you wish to fight."

Another guard approached, this one with a flask of oil, and four more guards soon joined him, bearing torches and more wood. "Why do you delay, Gelmir?" one of them asked the first guard.

Gelmir nodded toward Beregond. "This traitor would delay the lord Denethor's commands."

"Step aside, Beregond," one of the others said. But Beregond refused to move, and the guard stepped toward him, stopping before the first step. "Well, then, if you will not move willingly, you leave me no choice but to force you." He drew his sword and climbed the steps. Beregond blocked the guard's blow, and the guard Beregond's, sword-clangs breaking the peace of the Silent Street. At last Beregond found his mark and the guard fell.

A strange quiet fell over the remaining five guards. "Traitor!" one of them hissed at last. "Murderer!" He drew in his breath and spat on the ground before him. "A pox on you, and on your fathers before you and your sons after you."

Gelmir stepped forward and drew his sword, touching it to his forehead. "I shall rid us of this miserable excuse for a guard," he said, and he climbed the stairs.

Their swords met, the sound of metal meeting metal profaning the Hallows. One, two, three times their swords met. "Stay! Stay!" came the cry from behind them. "Stay this madness!" Gelmir stopped his sword's descent, but Beregond could not master his blade in time. Gelmir fell at his feet. Beregond looked up in dismay, and the remaining four guards turned around. Gandalf and Pippin hurried down the street.


	4. Chapter Four

Beregond reflects on his role in preventing Faramir's death, and justifies to a fellow guard why he considers Denethor one of the "victorious dead."

* * *

"I see," Galahir mused. "So the tales are true when they say you killed good men, but they do not tell the whole story."

"We have all spoke the words," Beregond said. "_'Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and ot the Lord and Steward, in living or dying, until my lord release me, or death take me_.' We were all serving who we saw as our lord, but I knew Denethor to be a madman. He was no fit ruler of Gondor, and in that way he was dead. So my fealty was due to Faramir. But the other men, they did not see what I saw. They did not think, they could not know--they still served Denethor."

"In which case you were no more a murderer than the thousands of men who killed Orcs and Southrons on the Pelennor," Galahir said. "That I can accept. But I hardly see how that makes Denethor one of the victorious dead."

"Denethor was not victorious in his death," Beregond admitted, "but he is both dead and victorious. He died on the Silent Street, but he won his victory long before that."

"I hardly see how that is possible. Of course, he fought many battles in his youth, but it seems you are speaking of some victory since then. Otherwise, why are you telling me of his death?"

"I do speak of some more recent victory," Beregond said, "but you seem content to guess at my meaning. Shall we continue this game of questions, or would you like me to finish my story?"

Galahir raised his hands in surrender. "Fine, fine--finish your story."

"Very well," Beregond said. "You have heard it said that, when the Ring-bearer and his Companion reached Orodruin, they had no hope of resisting the evil power that dwelt there, and that their quest would have failed if not for the strength of will they showed months before? The same proved true with the Lord Denethor."

"Haste, haste!" a voice called from within the house. "Do as I have bidden! Slay me this renegade! Or must I do so myself?" The door was wrenched from Beregond's hand and forced open, and Beregond turned. Behind him stood the lord Denethor, clenching the black rod of his stewardship in one hand and his sword in the other. His face was pale but his eyes burned with a cruel flame.

Gandalf sprang up the steps, and the guards covered their eyes. It seemed that Gandalf was full of a blinding light, bright enough to pierce that Eastern cloud as well as the depths of their hearts. And they cowered.

Gandalf lifted his hand, and Denethor's sword flew from his grasp into the shadows of the house behind him. "What is this, my lord?" Gandalf demanded. "The Silent Street is no place for the living, least of all for those who bear swords. If your men lack for enemies, their service could be put to better use before the Gate."

Denethor narrowed his gaze. "So," he said, his voice as cold as the dead who slept in the house behind him, "the Lord of Minas Tirith can no longer command his own men?"

"He may," Gandalf answered, "but others may question that command when it is turned to madness or evil purpose." Beregond was encouraged by the power of Gandalf's voice, and he looked up at the wizard. But a fear lay on Gandalf's face, an expression more terrible than Beregond had ever thought to see on one so great. "Where is your son, Faramir?" Gandalf asked.

"He is burning, already burning," Denethor replied. "They have set a fire in his flesh. The West has failed, and soon all will burn: ash and smoke, scattered by the wind."

Before he could speak further Gandalf strode toward the house, and the steward could do naught but step backwards, allowing the wizard entrance. Pippin and Beregond followed. On they went, Gandalf stepping forward and Denethor backward, until at last they stood before the table where the guards had lain Faramir. Wood was piled under and around it, already drenched in oil, but no fire had yet been lit. Beregond's heart dared to hope: _all had not been in vain!_

Suddenly Gandalf sprang forward, leaping on top of the piled wood, and he gathered Faramir in his arms. Jumping down, he carried Faramir toward the door. "Father..." Faramir moaned, and Gandalf stopped.

Denethor shook his head as one awaking from a deep sleep, and the fire in his eyes died away. Beregond turned to look at him, and he was surprised to see a tear rolling down Denethor's cheek. Never in all his years of service had he seen his lord cry. "My son," Denethor called, "he calls for me. Do not take him away!"

But Gandalf did not give Faramir to his father. "He calls," the wizard said, "but you cannot come to him, not yet. I take him to the Houses of Healing, where he must now seek healing--and whether he will find it or not, I cannot say. Whereas you must go down to the Gate and lead your people. I hope that a time shall come when you may yet see each other again, but that time is not now."

Denethor walked toward Faramir and took his son's hand in his own. Then he released it and met Gandalf's eyes. "Battle is vain. Why should we wish to live longer? Why should we not go to our death side by side?"

"Nay," Gandalf said, "that choice is not given to you. Or would you behave as one of the pagan kings, so corrupted by the Dark Lord that they slew themselves in pride and despair, and murdered their kin to ease their passing?" Gandalf turned his back to Denethor, carrying Faramir to the porch of the house and laying him on the bier and guards had brought him on.

Denethor followed, and for a moment he wavered. He stood on the porch, trembling as he looked on the face of his son, and Beregond thought he saw a great battle raging in the steward's eyes. If he guessed aright Denethor wished to go down to the field, to hope for a better day and a happier meeting with his son. But in the end Denethor had not the strength to fight on. He had struggled too long, for too many years against too great an enemy. Beregond remembered the rumours he had heard. _Some say that as he sits alone in his high chamber in the Tower at night, and bends his thought this way and that, he will at times search even the mind of the Enemy, wrestling with him._ Suddenly his lord seemed more tired than Beregond had ever seen him.

Denethor laughed softly to himself, a cold and cruel laugh, and Beregond never again saw him free of that fire that consumed him from the inside. The steward threw aside his staff and stood tall and straight again, and quickly he walked down to the bed where he had prepared the pyre. He returned with one of the seven stones, and, holding it before his face, the stone glowed as with a red flame. The flame cast itself on Denethor's features, and his face glowed red.

"Pride and despair!" he cried. "Didst thou think that the eyes of the White Tower were blind? Nay, I have seen more than thou knowest, Grey Fool. For thy hope is but ignorance. Go then and labour in healing! Go forth and fight! Vanity. I have seen the armies of Mordor, and her forces on the Pelennor are but the weakest finger of that great hand. The West has failed. Let all who would not be slaves to the Dark Land depart as quickly as they may.

"Hope on then!" Denethor cackled. "Do I not know thee, Mithrandir? Long have you haunted my libraries, seeking answers to fools' questions I thought at the time. But you are no fool. You have searched out Gondor's secret strengths and weaknesses. With the left hand thou wouldst use me for a little while as a shield against Mordor, and with the right bring up this Ranger of the North, this _Thorongil_," and he spat that word with a venom Beregond had not thought he possessed, "this Aragorn to supplant me. But I say to thee, Gandalf Mithrandir: I will not be thy tool! I will not step down to one such as you bring, last of a ragged house long bereft of lordship and dignity."

Gandalf looked at Denethor sadly. "At the very least, you shall not rob your son of his choice, while his death is still in doubt."

The flame in Denethor's eyes rekindled itself, more cruel and terrible than before. He tucked the palantir under his arm and with his other hand drew his knife, striding towards the bier.

"No, my lord!" Beregond cried, and he threw himself across Faramir. _In life or death, I promised to protect my lord. I have long given my life, and if death is required as well--so be it"_

"So," Denethor said, "thou hadst already stolen half my son's love. Now thou stealest the hearts of my knights also, so that they rob me wholly of my son at the last. But in this at least thou shalt not defy my will: to rule my own end.' He threw down his knife and turned, scaling the steps in a single bound. "Come hither!" he called to his guards. "Come, if you are not all recreant!" Two of the guards approached, and he took a torch from one of them. Re-entering the house, he thrust the brand into the oil-soaked wood and climbed onto the bed.

As the flames roared around him and the smoke crowned his head, he broke the steward's rod on his knees and threw it into the inferno. Denethor laid himself down on the bed, clasping the palantir with both hands until his skin blistered and his bones charred, and the fire of his pyre at last met the fire that had long burned in the steward's heart.

Gandalf turned away and pulled the door shut, standing on the porch bowed as if by a great burden. The flames roared greedily inside; wood burned and stone cracked. All was silent for what seemed an interminable moment. At last Denethor cried out; and he was heard no more by living men.

"So passes Denethor, son of Ecthelion," Gandalf said. He and Beregond bore the new steward away toward the Houses of Healing.


	5. Chapter Five

Beregond reflects on his role in preventing Faramir's death, and justifies to a fellow guard why he considers Denethor one of the "victorious dead."

* * *

Galahir sat in silence, staring into his mug. "The minstrels do not sing of that," he said after a moment.

"That does not surprise me," Beregond said. "This tale is not for all to hear, and I do not share it often."

"I understand about the madness, and about Denethor's end, why that does not fit well into rhymes--but what of the seeing-stone? That is the stuff songs are made of. I am surprised the bards do not tell that part of the story at least."

"Who would believe them?" Beregond asked. "Even Gandalf thought the stones were lost. No, when people listen to a bard's tale they wish to hear what they already know."

Galahir nodded his head weakly. "Aye." After a long pause he added, "To Ecthelion's son."

"To Ecthelion's son," Beregond echoed. He drained his mug, set it down, and silently left the inn.


	6. Author's Notes

Beregond reflects on his role in preventing Faramir's death, and justifies to a fellow guard why he considers Denethor one of the "victorious dead."

* * *

Author's Notes:

"_Löendë _had arrived":_Löendë _is a name for Midsummer Day. Canon does not specify (to my knowledge) when exactly the Gondorian day (a twenty-four hour day, not just the daylight hours) began, but most ancient cultures began their days either at sunset or sunrise. The creation story given in_The Silmarillion_shares many facts with the Genesis account, including the fact that the world began with darkness, and light was later introduced. Therefore it seems logical that Gondorians, being of a Númenórean culture, would have their day begin with darkness--that is, when the sun sets. For the purposes of this story,_löendë_ begins when the sun sets after the last day of Nárië. The custom of Gondorian soldiers remembering their fallen comrades on this date is entirely my own invention, but it seems reasonable.

"'To Belegorn!'...'Hirluin!'" These names are borrowed from many places:_The Silmarillion_, _The Peoples of Middle-earth_, and the Rohirric song at the end of "The Battle of the Pelennor Fields" in_The Return of the King_. They are for the most part not significant and are intended as a set of likely Gondorian and Rohirric names that could refer to any group of dead soldiers.

Galahir: This character has a larger backstory in Marta!verse, but for the purposes of this story he could be any Gondorian soldier.


End file.
